Twenty Minutes on a Quarter Pounder
by KellyLynne
Summary: Kilgrave screwed up a lot of lives, including one that Jessica dismissed entirely. Rated M for the copious swearing.


I step out of the elevator and walk outside. It's chilly, but it's nice to be out of my apartment, even if every step hurts. I'm still not used to walking with the cane, and it's awkward. As I walk past the bar, I wave at Luke. I haven't been in since the accident, even though I could really use a drink. Or six. But I've been informed by the docs that alcohol does not play well with the pain meds.

By the time I cross the street, my knee is screaming at me. I grit my teeth and keep going. There is no food in my apartment, and I'm freaking starving. The casseroles my mom left in the freezer are long gone. She flew out right after the accident, and I've never been so thankful to see anyone in my life. She took care of me for a week, and left me with meals for another week, but I hit the end of those three days ago. Yesterday was delivery pizza, the remains of which were breakfast this morning, but I can't afford to keep ordering in. Especially when I won't be back to work for at least another month. When you walk dogs for a living, being able to actually, you know, walk, is kind of a requirement.

My destination is the McDonald's half a block from my place. Yeah, I know, junk food, junk food, and more junk food. But it's what I can get to. And while you might think from the size of my ass that I'm an all pizza all the time kind of girl, it's getting really old. I would cheerfully murder someone for a meal that contains actual produce. I mean, I've been fantasizing about sweet, crunchy snap peas and juicy apples, for fuck's sake.

I walk into the restaurant, and I'm grateful it's not crowded. Two guys in baseball caps and a lady with her two kids ahead of me, and that's it. I'm staring at my feet the whole time, not wanting anyone to notice me or say shit about the fat chick with a cane ordering a Quarter Pounder and fries.

I get my food and hobble my ass back to the apartment. Either someone is stabbing me in the knee with a freaking knife, or some sadist sharpened the metal bits that are currently in there holding everything together. Or I'm due for more pain meds.

My scruffy little goofball of a terrier is barking before I can even get the door open, and he jumps up to try to lick my face.

"Hi, Monster! Miss me already?" His actual name is Toby, but Monster suits him. He sniffs at the bag and gives me big, sad eyes. I have him sit and offer a paw, then give him a French fry. I put the bag down on the table, and once he's finished his fry, he's eyeing it again. I fill his food bowl, and he grudgingly eats his kibble, taking long, wistful looks at the burger bag.

AC/DC blares from my phone, Bon Scott singing "I'm on the Highway to Hell." It seemed like an appropriate musical selection to remind me to do my daily PT. Five minutes on the elliptical, followed by stretches and strengthening. I step onto the machine, set a low speed, and start walking. I'm actually glad my asshole ex bought me the damn thing. At the time, I remember staring at him, blinking a couple times, and saying, "Honey, you remember what I do for a living, right?" And he mumbled something about how we should both get in better shape and he just wants me to be happy and healthy. Had I been smart, I'd have dumped his ass then and there instead of waiting until he found someone thinner who would put up with his shit.

I don't make it more than two minutes before I feel off, even lightheaded. At first I'm confused, wondering how I went from someone who walks at least four hours most days to someone who's getting their ass kicked by two minutes on an elliptical. And then I remember my burger.

I get off the elliptical, unwrap my burger and take a bite. It's greasy, terrible, and practically orgasmic. Lunch would probably have been a good idea, but I put off the walk for as long as I could stand it.

I get back on the machine, burger in hand. Three minutes to go, but it's amazing how much less this shit sucks when I actually get to eat food. Don't get me wrong, it still sucks. I mean, I walked out into traffic and got hit by a car. There's no part of this that doesn't suck.

The freaky thing is how it happened. I was walking home, and I hear a voice behind me. All he said was "Get out of my way." He had a British accent, and his tone was dripping scorn. I wanted to tell him to go the fuck around me, but before I could even say the words, I was stepping aside. I settled for muttering "Asshole." Under my breath, but he definitely heard me. He gestured to the busy street and said "Walk out into traffic." He didn't turn around. I never saw his face, just a purple jacket and dark hair.

But the really fucked up part is that I did it. It was like I was dreaming or watching myself from far away as I turned abruptly and stepped right off the curb and into an oncoming car.

Obviously, that's not the version of events I told the EMTs, or the half dozen doctors and nurses who asked what had happened. Knee surgery was bad enough, I didn't need a trip to the psych ward on top of it. But maybe I am crazy. Maybe there was no asshole in purple and I hallucinated the whole thing. That makes as much sense as a guy with mind-control powers who likes to throw random people in front of cars.

I finish up on the elliptical and do the rest of the exercises. When I'm finished, I want to cry. You know, again. Still. I get yet another ice pack out of the freezer and crash out on the couch. Toby jumps into my lap and licks my face. Okay, life doesn't completely suck.


End file.
